


Imagine You're Shipwrecked on a Not-so-deserted Island..

by imagineyourepregnant



Category: Original Work
Genre: Birth Fetish, Breastfeeding, Childbirth, F/F, F/M, Fpreg, Gangbang, Lactation, Lactation Kink, Multi, Orgy, Polyamory, Possible Character Death, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, labor fetish, multiples pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2019-10-26 03:43:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17738372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagineyourepregnant/pseuds/imagineyourepregnant





	1. Chapter 1

You’ve had one thing go wrong after another. Your cruise ship got caught in a storm and sank, you escaped with only your life by drifting along the waves on a blow-up raft that was deflating, and when you finally found land it was some island in the middle of nowhere. Your cell phone is drenched and won’t work, the screen only flickering, and you have no food, no water, and no idea where the hell you are.

The first day, you try to build a signal fire. You wander into the wild island’s forest only so far as you need to to find something flammable, always staying near to the beach. You rub two sticks together until your hands are raw, managing only the smallest of sparks before the ocean breeze blows it right back out. Useless. You hoist up your raft on sticks to make shade and watch the horizon instead, wondering if anyone would send a boat or a plane to look for you… and after hours of staring at the space where the sea meets the sky, you fall asleep.

But you don’t wake up where you were before.

There’s a pain in your neck like a mosquito bite. Your clothes are gone, your supple breasts bare and your nipples harden as the familiar breeze blows over you, but when you instinctively move to cover yourself, you find your hands bound. You open your eyes in panic, instantly more awake, and find yourself lying on the ground, tied hand and foot,… and with about a dozen unknown men surrounding you.

As soon as they see you’re awake, they look excited and begin speaking to each other in a language you don’t know, but no matter how jubilant they appear you’re certain that this cannot bode well for you. You desperately pull against your binds again, trying for all that you’re worth to free yourself, but to no avail. “What do you want?” you demand. “Let me go!”

They make no move to do any such thing. In fact, they do quite the opposite.

As a group, they stand and it takes two of them to pick you up with your thrashing about. You don’t want whatever they’re planning. What if they’re cannibals?

But your struggles have no effect on the larger men who lift you up and carry you off and into a cave. When they finally set you down, you’re beside a small fire, lying on a bed of leaves and bits of cloth—the best they can do for a soft bed. They cut your binds, but you know now that there’s no use trying to run, so you stay put, staring up at them in anticipation for what they might do—dreading the worst.

The man who appears to be their leader steps forward, a crude, bowl-shaped container filled with a white paste in his hand, and he begins to draw on your skin as he chants low and unusual words, making the same kinds of marks that they each wear on their own arms and faces. You tremble in fear at first, but with every gentle stroke of his fingers across your cheeks, down your arms, and around the mounds of your breasts, you begin to relax, even letting out a soft moan when he draws right over your nipples.

He finishes his artwork with his palm pressed flat against your belly, leaving a perfect hand print, and you could swear—though it couldn’t be possible—that you felt something heat up in your groin, a certain wetness between your legs, a strange ache in your belly.

You haven’t eaten in a while, you think, so perhaps you’re just hungry?

They bring gifts of flowers for your hair and fresh fruit from the surrounding wilderness next, the men crouched down around you, their hands gently petting your soft nipples in childlike curiosity as you eagerly swallow down whatever they feed you, sucking even the juice off their fingers and letting them kiss away the sweet nectars that run down your chin and cling to your lips. They take their turns kissing you, worshipping you, their hands gently caressing every tender curve of your body as they explore, and you eventually begin to kiss them back.

It feels nice, you think, to be worshipped.

They never touched you any lower until that moment, though, not until you responded, until you moaned out for them to touch you more, the dampness between your legs somehow making you squirm with an unbearable need.

A hand is lowered to your labia and you gasp into a kiss against warm, thick lips as fingers find their way inside of you. They take turns, each of them kissing, touching, caressing, and eventually tasting you, their heads lowered between your legs, and your moans echo in the dimly lit cave as their tongue lap up your juice, each of them finding their own curious pleasure in the act.

When their leader steps forward again, the cloth that covered his privates removed, you wonder how it will fit, how you could possibly stay in one piece, but as soon as he pushes inside of you, you feel only bliss. Another man kisses your neck as he thrusts, another at your lips, another with a hand on your painted breasts, and by the time he cums inside of you, you’ve already orgasmed twice.

They rotate then, each other them having their turn and their way with you, every cock that’s pushed inside of you like a new, thrilling experience, every man doing his part to spoil you with affection as they share, treating sex like a team effort, and each of them pumps their seed into your waiting womb until your belly looks swollen and it all feels as if it will gush out of you as the last one pulls out.

From that moment, you’re never alone. You are their wife and their goddess. You have as much food as you want, as much sex as you want, and your men are only too happy to supply. You wander the wilderness under their guidance, you learn how to survive, you learn the words for food, for water, and the names of every man, but most of their language is far too complex to master.

Time passes as your belly begins to swell with child, making you hornier than ever, eager to have each of them in every position, sometimes as many as you can take at once. They rub your belly with awe, sometimes while they chant, and they paint new designs on it as it grows in size. To them, this tribe of only men, it is a miracle.

You start to worry about what will happen with the birth—there are no midwives, no hospitals, no medicines, and you’re certain none of these men have ever delivered a child before—but they’re there for you and you’re certain that your husbands and loyal devotees will all do their best.

The first contractions start in the middle of the night when your belly is full and you’re sure you’re far past your due date and so large you can barely stand without help. You cry out in surprise, awakening the men around you immediately, and your hand flies to your long overgrown belly that tightens and releases again, letting you relax for a moment, but not for long. Your husbands gather around as every long moan and every harsh jab of pain periodically wracks your body, shooting pain up your spine that makes you scream. You try walking the length of the cave, determined to make it go faster, a man on each arm for support as you waddle with your extended belly hanging low in front of you, their hands on your back as you breathe through the next hard contraction. The man on your right is bleeding where your nails have bit into his hand as you screech, moan, and cry through each one, but he offers no complaints.

A sudden gush of fluids bursts from within you, making you moan and you tremble in their arms as you feel the stream running down your leg, but you’re not ready to push yet, not dilated enough.

Another three hours of contractions pass with each sudden jolt of pain making you scream in the agony and all your husbands can do is try to make you comfortable. They bring water, flowers, and sweet fruits. They kiss you and rub your swollen stomach and suck on your leaking breasts. They pet your sweaty hair and wipe away the tears from your cheeks, but those are only temporary pleasures, fleeting in comparison to the pain that is neverending.

When you’d been moaning and crying for hours, your legs too tired to support your impossible mass as you walk the cave, pacing as you beg your child to come out, to be born, to end the torture you’re in, it finally descends into your birth canal, it’s head pressing right against your opening, and you get the urge to push. You bend your knees, using your husbands to support you as you grit your teeth and bear down, pushing with all of the might you can muster, and you make a small amount of progress. With the next hard contraction, you push again, screaming into the bare, painted chest of the man in front of you as the baby begins to crown.

Your legs can’t hold you up any longer. You’re trembling, breathless, sweaty, and exhausted, so you motion for your husbands to help you to your bed of cloth and leaves and they help you to lie down on your back, your knees up as you grunt through another fierce contraction. Your belly shudders and, with a gush of fluids, the head is out. The men around you cheer, petting and kissing and chanting in their own way to encourage you to push again and you bear down with everything you have in the next contraction.

You scream with the next contraction, but you don’t push, cursing in a language they don’t understand as you cry out for help instead, but it is only you who can birth the child. You’re so close. You can feel it stretching you, pushing your body to the limit like never before and you’re certain that you’ll be torn in two. The men hold your hands and cheer you on again and, somehow, you find the strength to push one more time. The shoulders slip free and your son is born.

They quickly wrap him in a cloth and they cut the cord with a primitive knife, all of them rejoicing and hoisting up your newborn son with wide smiles, but your pain hasn’t ended. Another contraction rips through you after a minute and you feel another mass enter the birth canal. “No, no, no!” you beg, the dread of another giving birth again too much for you to handle, but you can’t stop now.

When the men realize what’s happening, their shouts of joy are cut off and they hurry to your side once more, taking your hands and chanting to keep going, push again, you can do it, come on… but you’re exhausted, weak, trembling, your breath comes only in shallow gasps for air as they pet you, begging you to keep going.

You can’t.

You look at your newborn son and smile weakly, glad that at least this was not all for nothing…

Hands all join together then, resting on your shuddering belly, and they push for you. You scream even louder until your voice grows hoarse, begging them to stop, the pain unbearable as they force it out of you, head and shoulders all in a matter of moments, but then… the pressure is gone. You’re left twitching and crying as they rain their apologies in kisses all over your skin, a second baby boy lying and screeching between your spread open legs, and your stomach so strangely deflated.

And somehow, despite all of the pain and the fear and the fatigue that makes you wish you could simply melt into the cave floor and never move again,… you know that, deep down, you are eager for the opportunity to extend your miracle family again.


	2. Chapter 2

After the sinking of an enormous cruise ship nearly one and a half years ago, you’ve been sent with your crew to make a documentary, intending to pay homage to the lives of all those lost at sea, theorize a bit as to why the shipwreck occurred, and excited to be, finally, the face in front of the camera for once, instead of behind it.

The last thing you expect is, after a week of filming around the crash site and deep sea diving to pick up any remains the team could, to end up in the same situation as the men and women whose tragedy you’d been documenting. A shift in the winds happens too quickly to avoid and then the storm is upon you and your small boat before you could escape.

You’re swept away like the rest of the crew, but you’re lucky—you survive, washed up on the beach of some unknown island a day or two later with your life preserver still around your neck and enough saltwater in your mouth to make you swear off swimming for the rest of your life.

It occurs to you that you should be frightened and trying to find a way home, but something like a burning curiosity alights in you. This was exactly what your movie needed—excitement, hope, real journalism. What if someone else had washed up on the same shore all that time ago? Thank god your handheld camera is waterproof.

You need food and shelter anyway and so you turn on the camera as you wander into the jungle, narrating your experience and telling the tale of how you got there as well as sharing your hopes that you might find some undiscovered group of survivors. Perhaps they’re living in some elaborate tree houses like the family in that one movie and learned to survive? Their stories would sell thousands more copies than some documentary about another ship sinking…

What you soon stumble upon, however, is quite surprising, even for you.

You walk into a clearing, unknowingly interrupting what appeared to be some sort of… orgy, for lack of a better word. There were at least a dozen men with a single woman, heavy with child at that. She had to be near to term if she wasn’t carrying multiples. All across her skin are drawn the same designs as the men had on them in white paint, though she looks just as much like an outsider to the group as you do.

You drop your camera in surprise and it clatters to the floor, immediately drawing all of the attention to yourself. Thirteen pairs of eyes turn to you immediately and a few of the men begin to advance without even a moment of hesitation as you hastily pick it back up, saying, “Sorry! I didn’t mean to disturb. I lost my boat and I was just looking around—”

A strong hand interrupts you, covering your mouth and your following cry for help as the men hold you fast. But they mean you no harm. Although they hold you tight to keep you from lashing out, they are gentle and appear to be only curious.

Still, you try to wiggle free as they slowly caress your cheeks, pet your hair, and quite forwardly grope your breasts through your soaked shirt and bra. “Hey!”you try to protest, but it only comes out as a muffled sound against the strong palm over your mouth.

“You washed up on shore?” asks the woman who’d been helped to her feet while you were distracted. English! Thank goodness. She walks slowly closer with her massive stomach swaying in front of her, eyeing your frame as you vigorously nod in response, hoping she can help to clear up whatever misunderstanding this must be. “I did too, a while ago. The cruise ship I was on sank and I ended up here,” she said, running her hands over her stomach and leaving a hand underneath it for support.

Reaching out, she places her other hand over your own flat belly then, saying with a smile, “They like you already. You should let them spoil you.” A man beside you runs his hand up the inside of your thigh then and it’s hard not to shudder as the pregnant woman coos, “Enjoy it. After a few minutes of them, you won’t miss civilization at all.”

Well, you find it awfully hard to believe that you could prefer living here and being groped by savages, but it’s hard to argue with a hand over your mouth and a set of hands creeping all over your body, pawing and curiously poking at your clothes and playing with your hair. When they slowly unbutton your shirt, you shy away, wiggling and squirming again.

The woman leans closer, her belly brushing against yours as she presses a kiss to your cheek next, whispering, “Relax…” and, for some reason, you can’t help but comply. She says something in a language you can’t quite understand and then the hand is removed from your mouth, but soon her lips are on yours and, though you’re not quite sure what’s come over you, you find yourself kissing her back. “It’s scary now, but you’ll see,” she says as her soft lips linger against yours. “When you’re as pregnant as I am, we’ll be goddesses together.”

Your knees weaken as each strangely magical kiss lowers your guard and you find yourself surrendering… surrendering… There’s a hand on your zipper now, but you don’t care. Your shirt is slipped off and all you notice is the slight nip in the air that makes your nipples harden and then the enormous globe of a stomach pressed against yours. It terrifies you, to think that you might be like her soon, so stuffed with children that even walking was a chore, but she seems happy, content, and you’re starting to understand what she meant by “goddesses” when hands begin to caress your bare skin.

She holds your hand and kisses your neck as you’re eventually sat down on the ground, keeping you calm, like a reassuring lighthouse in the terrifying storm that was coming your way in swirling patterns of paint and soft touches by many hands. When their lips touch your sex, you cry out, unable to even register thoughts or form words with your mouth that hung open in shock as your legs spread open wide while they began to lick and tease your clit, and the woman smiles with a sort of pride, saying, “Yeah… They’re good at that.”

It’s hours before they’re done with you and you’re sure that every part of you had been touched and tasted and painted. Your skin tingles and your stomach bulges with their excessive loads that leave you feeling only slightly ill, your womb sloshing with their seed. And as you fall asleep in the arms of the goddess, a queen amongst the men who worshiped her, and the many men around you in a sort of nest of limbs, you wonder how you could have resisted in the first place at all.

Months pass and you decide that your queen has to be carrying multiples. She’s had twin boys before, so it wouldn’t be unprecedented. Like a pillar of strength, though, she never seems to worry, never seems to care that birth could be painful or dangerous—she has the utmost confidence in her family to support her through anything.

The day that her water finally breaks and her contractions begin, it’s painful just for you to watch. Your own swelling belly aches as she screams and you can feel your own nails digging into your palms in empathetic pain as she pushes and pushes, endlessly pushing with so little progress. When she can barely hold herself up anymore, so fatigued that she’s past even the ability tocry, you let her rest against you, her head on your shoulder as she moans and screams out her pain. You rub her back and you softly whisper your encouragements while the men rub her thighs and her shuddering belly and caress every inch of her, leaving no small space untouched by their warmth and support.

When the babies are finally born, there’s a great deal of cheering. More boys for the tribe. You kiss her face softly in reward, full of fear for your future fate and hers as she sags in your arms that you’re trembling, but she says in a weak voice before she loses consciousness, “Don’t worry… You’ll see it’s not so bad when it’s your turn… We support each other.”

What bullshit.

After so many months, your belly is so heavy you had difficulty even moving. The men suck at your stretched and sore and leaking breasts and help you as much as they can, giving you food and pleasure and supporting you however you need, but it hardly helps to soothe you when your belly is so large you can’t see your own feet, when you have to sit with your legs apart to let your stomach rest on the ground, and when every sharp jab of your children’s stretching limbs keeps you up at night.

When the contractions start, it’s the kindest mercy and the deepest misery because, just as luck would have it, you’re alone. Hunting is a family and tribe occasion, so the men are gone for the day. Even your queen is gone, off with her twin toddlers and her newborn brood in a cave to prepare for the rainy season while you cramp and huff and sweat in solitude.

You think that, perhaps, if you scream for help loudly enough, someone might hear, but no one comes even after hours pass and the children inside of you are demanding, insistent upon their release from the prison of you, and there is little you could do to delay them. You try to close your legs, try to deny your body’s strong desire to push, and cry so desperately for help until your voice wis hoarse, but all to no avail.

The first child crowns and you feel as if you might split in two. On your back on a pile of leaves and bits of cloth, you scream and cry, watching the light from the cracks in your hut’s walls fade as night begins to fall, and you tell yourself that you can wait until the men return. Just a little longer… You know you have to push, your body is dying to push, but you’re scared, so scared.

What if something goes wrong?

When the head slips free because, despite all of your efforts, your body is making you push, you scream in your agony, a gush of fluids flooding the floor of your hut, and you lay back, panting heavily as you try to gather enough strength to finish the job when a soft voice breaks through your heavy sobs, saying, “I heard the screaming a—Oh my god! Hold on! I’m here.”

The other woman, her body bare and beautiful and her breasts swaying, leaking with milk that you’re sure must be bothering her, kneels beside you and she checks on your progress. “You’re almost there,” she says, brushing a bit of your sweaty hair out of the way before she kisses your brow. “One big push. You’ve got this!”

She takes your hand and you feel somehow stronger, invigorated, and more reassured than ever. So, you finally push. You scream and you cry louder than ever as the shoulders widen you more than ever before and you squeeze her hand until you’re certain that she ought to be screaming right along with you, but she stays as a supportive pillar, rock solid beside you with years of experience and maternal comfort.

The shoulders finally slip free after what feels like another hour of push after push after push and your first baby is born and, for a moment, you can rest.

Still, another needs to come out, but your body is spent, your energy at an all-time low. You haven’t been able to eat, haven’t had a man around to serve you while you’re unable to move, and haven’t had even a sip of water all day. Then, you glance to her swaying breasts, so heavy with milk, swaying beside you as she quickly cleans and wraps up your first-born and you have a bit of a crazy thought…

“I’m so thirsty,” you say as you roll onto your side to face her. Your hand so weakly slides up her side to cup one of her leaking breasts as you ask, “Please…?”

Without even a moment of hesitation, she agrees with a nod and lies down beside you so that her breasts are at your mouth and you moan as you latch onto her dark nipple and a rush of sweet and thick milk spills into your mouth. A new contraction rips through you and you can feel her wince as you tense up, perhaps biting more firmly than you intend, but she runs her fingers through your hair and lets out a loud moan as she presses your face only more firmly against her until your contraction passes.

“Take all that you need,” she breathes hotly, her head thrown back in pleasure as your tongue teases her nipple and you quickly drain her breasts dry, your belly sloshing with warm milk. “Good girl… Now get on your back and let’s finish this,” she purrs before she finally pulls away, leaving only the sweet taste on your lips as she moves between your legs.

When the next contraction comes, she places a hand on your belly and helps you push, coaching you through every breath and moan, and, with her milk in you, you have just enough energy to comply. Your toes dig into the dirt as you push, your body stretching to allow for the second child to pass through to freedom. When all but the shoulders and below are free, she carefully helps, pulling the child from you faster than you can push to end your pain, and she praises as your second child begins to cry in chorus with the first, “Good! You did so good.”

She places both of your children on your chest and lays beside you again, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, tasting even her own milk as her tongue slips inside your mouth. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier,” she whispers, her hand gently running down your side and over your empty stomach, leaving a tingle on your skin wherever her delicate fingers go. “Try to sleep… The men will be back soon… They’ll be thrilled with what you’ve done.”

“Me?” you ask in between each of your soft, tender kisses. “You'v given them more children than I could…”

She pulls away just a bit then, smiling kindly as she glances to the newborns on your chest. “But you’ve given them something I couldn’t,” she says softly.“Girls.”


End file.
